White Collar: Besties
by Ruahnna
Summary: Mozzie had had an uneasy alliance with the people from Neal's new "leash" on life, but it hasn't all be wine and dart games. When push come to shove, a real friend will always have your back.


**Title:** Besties

**Rating**: Gen

**Genre/Relationship: **Mozzie and Neal (friendship)

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 1,625

**Summary:** A friend will always have your back.

**A/N:** Written for the prompt "Best Friend" at Doin' It In DC, bracket 2, on November 2, 2013

**Besties**

Neal caught his arm before he could turn the corner, but gently, and released him almost instantly. Mozzie swung around and looked at Neal, the reflection from the street light making it difficult to see his eyes. He waited.

"C'mon, Mozzie—come and have a drink with us."

"Squeezing into a booth between Boss Suit and Line Backer Suit?" He snorted. "No thanks."

"Mozzie…. You helped us set this thing up. At least come out and enjoy the spoils of war.

"War is right," Mozzie muttered. "As long as they insist on taking a parochial role in—"

"Diana's gonna be there," interrupted Neal, trying his "wheedle" out. He might as well have been shooting marshmallows at a rhino for all the good it did.

Mozzie turned around completely, arms crossed across his chest. His expression was neutral, but his voice had leveled up a notch. "And you thought that would _encourage me to come_?" he said.

"We're just going to…it's not going to be a suit convention," said Neal. "Just a nice, normal drink in a nice, normal bar."

"Define _normal_," said Mozzie.

Neal smiled the best smile in his repertoire. "You first," he said. In spite of himself, Mozzie smiled.

"Touché," he muttered, and he unbent a little. Seeing it gave Neal hope, but it was a false hope. In the end, Mozzie would not come, but he made it clear that he didn't want company, so there was really no reason for Neal _not_ to go.

Neal went, but he didn't feel great about it.

Neal slid into the booth next to Diana and smiled cheekily. She scooched in, making room for him, but grudgingly. "Do you sit this close to Jones?" she asked.

"Not if I can _help_ it," Neal said.

Peter returned from the bar with two longnecks and handed one to Diana. Clinton already had a mug in his hand, and Garcia was nursing a glass of wine. Peter caught Neal's eye. Neal nodded and Peter went back to the bar, returning in a few minutes with a glass of chardonnay, which Neal took and sipped. He didn't make a face, so it must have been tolerable.

"Mozzie's not going to come?" Peter asked. Neal shook his head, busying himself with the wine.

"Naw. He said he's had enough of the suit brigade for the day."

"Tell him we appreciate it," said Peter.

"Wait and see how appreciative you are once you get his bill," said Neal, and smiled. Peter grinned back, but looked a little worried.

"You ready for this thing tomorrow?" Peter asked. "It's been a little slow getting started."

"Sure," said Neal. His smile was bland, and Peter's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"I suppose you're looking forward to being off the radar for a bit," he said.

"You suppose right," said Neal. He gave Peter a version of the same cheeky smile he'd given Diana earlier.

"Any plans for that off-anklet down time?" Clinton asked. Neal's expression revealed nothing, but a muscle jumped in his cheek. Mozzie would have caught it, but Mozzie wasn't here.

"Oh, the usual. A bank heist, a couple of art thefts, some white slavery…the usual. Oh—and helping the FBI catch an embezzler who's been siphoning money into an off-shore account."

Jones snorted, but Peter had—finally—caught the edge in Neal's voice. He smiled and inclined his head. "Sounds like a plan," he said. "But that's the end of work talk, okay? Anybody see the game?"

"_Which_ game?" said Neal.

Clinton and Diana both groaned, and things were easy again, normal again. Sort of.

It had been a grueling two weeks. While Neal had reveled in the undercover time—the _off-anklet_ time—he'd been forced by his cover to take up residence elsewhere. Mozzie, after looking over the security at the building, had opted not to visit Neal there. They had met once in a coffee shop, twice in Central Park and once in an electronics shop that Neal was pretty sure was stocked by "Fell Off A Truck." Everything else they'd done by phone. Neal estimated that Mozzie had gone through at least five burner phones during that time, and was beginning to wonder if the next step was going to be Estelle, but Mozzie had waved off his objections to his paranoia with his usual rant.

"I called your phone," Neal had complained, "but you didn't answer."

"Which phone was that?"

Neal read off a number but Mozzie was shaking his head before he'd finished. "You're two phones ago," he said. "Here—use _this_ one." He sent Neal a blank text. "That one should be good for the next, oh, 36 hours."

"Mozzie-!"

"Don't whine," said Mozzie. "I'm keeping a low profile."

"You're profile is so low it's becoming ridiculous."

"Said the man whosE every move is being tracked by the FBI."

"Not _this _week." Neal looked affronted, but even _that_ did not have the desired effect. Mozzie was adamant. He dug in his heels and made a spooling motion with his hands. "You run along and play undercover with the suits. I'm going back to your apartment and drowning my sorrows in your wine cabinet." His voice was triumphant, but Neal wasn't fooled. Mozzie was miffed, or at the very least, dissatisfied. He tried one more time.

"I don't know how long I'll be undercover," Neal said. "What if I can't find you?"

"Don't worry," Mozzie had said. "I'll find you."

He watched as Mozzie's striped shirt disappeared around the corner, then sighed, and went back to Nick Halden's new apartment.

"I don't like this," said Peter. "Anderson is plenty antsy, but there's not been a peep in his account. I don't even think he's checked it remotely," he fretted.

"Before, he was checking it plenty often," Clinton said. "You think he's spooked?"

"Well, he could just be being cautious because of the audit," said Peter.

"Yeah, Boss, but the audit doesn't cover the account he's been embezzling from," Diana added.

"I know. But it was a good way to get our people in the building," said Peter. One nice thing about _this_ operation was that they could use their own accountant people, so there was really no "undercover" involved. Except for Neal.

And Neal said his _gut_ said that things were going to break soon.

"He needs to get the money laundered, and soon. He's got a huge payment due to Gator Garrison by the end of the week. He can pull any money from the bank, and he's afraid to touch his _own_ accounts for fear of drawing attention."

"You think he'll take the bait?" Peter had asked when they had met at the corner drug store. The store was mostly deserted, and when Peter had joined Neal he had found him planted in the condom section. Peter's face had flamed and he'd given Neal the _look_, but Neal had been unrepentant.

"No one is going to want to linger here," said Neal. "And show me another part of the store that would make two separate guys come out at 3 in the morning to shop."

Peter had desisted grumbling, and they'd compared intel.

"Just be careful," Peter had cautioned, but Neal had merely grinned—and waved his condoms.

"You're getting better," said June. She leaned elegantly in the doorway of Neal's apartment and smiled at Mozzie. Mozzie smiled back, his face suddenly animated instead of frowning, and walked over to retrieve the darts. He held them out to June, who wandered into the room and stood where Mozzie had been standing.

"I'm working on it. Let 'em rip." June hit the bull-eye every time.

"Play me a game?"

"You would win," said Mozzie. "Every time."

"Yes," June said. "I _would_. _Every time_." She looked at Mozzie. "So why don't you tell me what's wrong so I don't have to _make_ you?"

Mozzie grinned and at least tried to dredge up his "Who, me?" face, but in the end it was better, really, to talk about it. To share with someone who really did understand what it was like to be involved with someone who lived right on the edge of danger all the time.

Neal's wine cabinet had never been more appreciated.

"Nice shirt," said Mozzie sourly. "I can't say I'd recommend your tailor."

Neal grinned and shucked off the shirt with alacrity, unheeding of the torn sleeve. The shirt—bedraggled though it had been in the melee—had nonetheless covered up the damage done to Neal's torso. Mozzie let out a low whistle and looked at the darkening bruises.

"Ouch," he said. "What's the other guy look like?"

Neal grinned. "About six-foot-one, blond hair, handcuffs. Last seen being escorted to jail." When Mozzie didn't grin, Neal dropped the sarcasm and looked at his friend. "He's gone, Mozzie. And I'm fine."

"Well, no thanks to the Suits," said Mozzie. His arms were crossed over his chest again, his expression dark.

"The Suits were pretty helpful, arriving on the scene with guns and all…?"

Mozzie snorted and looked away, and Neal walked over and stood closer to him, not touching, but waiting for Mozzie to look at him. Finally, Mozzie did, his expression close to mutinous.

"But not as helpful as you, Moz. If you hadn't gotten that door opened in time, hadn't gotten me out…."

"Yeah, well…."

"Thanks. Okay?"

Mozzie unbent a little. "Yeah, well, wait until you see what I did to your wine cabinet."

"Oh?"

"And your dart board."

Neal just smiled and put his hand, briefly, on Mozzie's shoulder.

"What's mine is yours," Neal said.

"Yes," said Mozzie, moderately appeased.

"Cause we're besties, right?"

This time, Mozzie had to work to hide his smile. "Right."


End file.
